No-Tell Motel
by randomsquare
Summary: Becoming the manager of The Penobscot Lodge, just off Route 1, was not exactly the kind of career Killian Jones had dreamt of as a little lad, picturing his glittering new life in America. But when you're 32, and find yourself broke, single and minus your left hand, it makes you curiously unqualified for even the most menial of jobs. Captain Swan AU. Tiny one-shot just for funsies.


Becoming the manager of The Penobscot Lodge, just off Route 1, was not exactly the kind of career Killian Jones had dreamt of as a little lad, picturing his glittering new life in America.

But when you're 32, and find yourself broke, single and minus your left hand, it makes you curiously unqualified for even the most menial of jobs. Thankfully, the folks at the Penobscot were not particularly discerning. It was enough that he arrived more or less on time for his shifts, and didn't arrange drug deals while he was on duty.

His promotion to manager had been accidental, really. Something about his superior arranging drug deals whilst on duty.

The bump in pay, from 9 bucks an hour to 12 had been welcome. The extra responsibility less so. Though no one much minded if he spent most of his shift curled up in his office with a novel, so long as the rosters were done, and cleaning supplies arrived when they were supposed to. No one was about to rat him out to corporate. No one was paid enough to care.

The Penobscot was hardly the most glamorous of destinations. Though Killian made sure the rooms were clean enough, the establishment did enjoy something of a sordid reputation.

Every once in a while, an intrepid traveller would stop by, too busy falling asleep at the wheel to make it on to Rockport or Ellsworth, and a proper Motel 6. They'd dine out on expired snacks from the vending machines, and leave scathing reviews on TripAdvisor, complaining of the traffic noise and avocado sheen of the bathrooms.

They were not the usual clientele. The usual clientele were… well, they were prostitutes, mostly. At least, that's what Killian assumed. He'd learned long ago it was best not to pry. But there were certainly a suspicious succession of leggy, beautiful women in weather inappropriate clothing, accompanied by balding, overweight types old enough to be their fathers.

They certainly didn't seem to be on college tours.

And the insistence of paying for a room with cash was always something of a giveaway. They never asked for the wifi password, either.

Naturally, with the Penobscot moonlighting as such a den of iniquity, there were bound to be… problems.

He really shouldn't have looked forward to them as much as he did.

It wasn't that he enjoyed it, exactly. Being jolted out of a book about the Napoleonic Wars by the echo of a gunshot three doors down was hardly conducive to a pleasant work environment. And the lass who'd sustained a broken nose, and had come into the office looking for first aid, did nothing to improve his view of humanity.

But what it did, though, was necessitate a call to _her_.

She'd arrived the first time in the dead of night, wearing a red leather jacket and a scowl. Sheriff Emma Swan.

She wasn't like the sheriffs Killian had grown up watching on American television shows, with their tan uniforms, protruding beer bellies and hard-won pearls of wisdom. She didn't smile, or ask Killian to repeat his name back. She just asked for the master key, and told Killian to take shelter in his office, in case things went wrong.

"Wrong?" he'd asked at the time. "Wrong how?

"Well, if you hear any more shots, you should probably call an ambulance. And in case I'm not able to say it later, my blood type is A negative."

Then without so much as a backwards glance, she'd placed the keycard between her teeth, and pulled a handgun from her waistband and cocked the hammer back, all in one smooth, well-practised motion. Within a minute, she had the gunman subdued. Within five she had him in handcuffs as Killian stood uselessly by the reception desk, watching their progress to the cruiser.

"You might want to putty up that bullet hole," she'd called out to him. "And burn the curtains."

He'd swallowed hard, imagining the worst. "Blood?" he'd asked.

"No," she said, shoving the perp into the backseat without bothering to shelter his head from contact with the frame. "They're just fucking ugly."


End file.
